


Moral Code Error

by Bibliotecaria_D



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 01:33:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliotecaria_D/pseuds/Bibliotecaria_D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Motormaster doesn’t know any better, but Soundwave should.  Jazz gets stuck in the middle of an ethical dilemma.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moral Code Error

**Title:** Moral Code Error  
 **Warning:** Tangled moral code and questionable ethics pertaining to prisoners of war post-war.  
 **Rating:** G  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Jazz, Soundwave, Motormaster, Optimus Prime, Krok  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Kinkmeme prompt - _“I have seen many Jazz/Soundwave stories where Jazz is the slave and Soundwave is his master who is trying to win him over…But I have yet to see one where the Soundwave is the slave…_  
-The Autobots win,  
-The Decepticons need to be rehabilitated and to do this it is decided they should be "honored guest" or servants in certain Autobots' homes,  
-There is a home/orphanage/place that those are being difficult are sent to (maybe other Autobots can claim those in there if wanted) and it is enough to frighten the Decepticons.  
Bonus Stickers If:  
-Toys are used to keep the Decepticons docile,  
-Soundwave resists Jazz at every possible turn,  
-Jazz gets frustrated.

 

**[* * * * *]**

 

It wasn’t quite as frustrating as war, but it was frustrating nonetheless.

Jazz wasn’t a communications specialist, but he’d been hacking the Decepticons long enough to qualify as a part-time expert, at least. If anyone would recognize malicious code when it scrolled down his screen, it was him. Despite the sheer volume being turned out, Jazz was still checking every line produced, because every other orn had yet another attempt to slip something by him. It was never the same trick, and sometimes a few orns would pass before his threat assessment processors connected the lines over several shifts into a coherent threat instead of random code. It was rarely blatant. The changes and additions were as subtle as their creator, and it showed in the depth of interwoven sabotage Jazz had been pulling out of his work since the first shift. If one line of code got past him, it would be built upon the next shift, and the next. 

No matter what the work assignment, there were always these loose threads. Loose, until they connected, and then suddenly they were a web. A web that kept stubbornly trying to string together, no matter how many times the attempts were smacked down. Weather satellite transmission programs, innocuous music mixers for the entertainment broadcasts, switchboard controls for the new transmission towers -- they were all infected, and had all been disinfected. Sometimes there were viruses. Sometimes there were text lines. Specific codes on random communication frequencies that were useless on their own and were only were encoded when another packet transmitted to intersect the first by chance. 

So much effort, senseless effort, was put into every attempt. There was no physical threat to any of the alterations. The malicious code was a threat because of it signified resistance, not because of its result. It was the act of defiance that mattered. The method varied every orn, but the message was always the same.

_’I am not defeated. We are not defeated. We are Decepticons.’_

Jazz pushed away from his desk and ran a hand down his face, feeling tired. When he pulled his hand away, he stared at the reflected blue glow off his palm as if looking for answers. War had been the Pit, but peace didn’t feel much better at the moment. He’d never stopped to think about how the rebuilding of Cybertron would be just as exhausting as fighting over it.

Weariness had his door windows half rolled down, and the small Autobot sighed out his vents as he stood up. This was becoming routine. He wondered if it had somehow, in the time since the war ended, turned into a stupid, confounding habit instead of action meant to accomplish something. What was this obstinate sabotage for, anymore? Did it really have a point? He thought about it even as he stood up and meandered across his office toward the door. 

There was no more war. The Decepticons had been disbanded in the wake of crushing defeat. Most of them had been thrown into stockades, put into separate cells and kept that way because restarting the war was a nightmare that’d overruled ethical considerations. Their spark-chambers were clamped with debilitation rings; their combiner and other sub-unit bonds were capped with as many inhibitors as the Autobots could weld on. It still wouldn’t have worked if the Decepticons hadn’t been so thoroughly crushed by their defeat, but seeing Megatron torn apart had done in most of the faction’s collective willpower. Even the most troublesome mechs had meekly resigned themselves to sitting in their cells after a few spark-clenched seizures really ground in how inescapable Autobot victory was. 

Autobot ideals permeated this new Cybertron from the ground up, and Optimus Prime had recognized that the defeated Decepticons would find it difficult to fit in. The war might begin again over misunderstanding and fear as much as past alliances. In an effort to prevent a return to second-class citizenships and festering hatred, the Prime had appealed to the newly re-established Senate. There had to be a solution that didn’t involve wholesale execution of malcontents.

The Senate had found one. Jazz had started out doubtful, but he’d thrown his marker in with the general vote for it. It was, as Optimus had pointed out, better than fighting. The vote had passed, and the Senate had approved a work program rehabilitation program. The initial stage was an idea derived from Earth’s history: chain-gangs. Although the chains weren’t usually used after the first years passed. The labor gave the Decepticon prisoners something useful to do, got them out of the poisonous despair saturating the stockades, and made them face the reality of a post-war world.

After reality sank in, the second phase of the work program went into effect. The Decepticons were released out on a case-by-case basis to Autobots meant to work alongside them. The partnership introduced the prisoners to a society where violence wasn’t the answer. Their ‘guardian’ Autobots guided them toward discovering viable alternatives. It required a firm hand and combination of authority and patience. Not every Autobot who applied passed the application standards. Not every Decepticon wanted to leave the stockades for the second phase. The willing were matched with the able, however, and the resulting teams gradually worked to replace the violent, brute-force Decepticon lifestyle with the understanding required to join Cybertron’s new society, and the education or job training to thrive in it.

Smack his aft and call him a Honda if the program wasn’t working. Jazz had signed up as a cynic, and it _was_ tedious and slow. That didn’t stop it from _working_ , however. One-on-one tutoring seemed impossibly personalized to shorter-lived races that hadn’t experienced the way warfare had become a way of life. Sometimes Jazz had been forced to step back and realize how far removed from each other the two factions had become, that it took a personal guide to enter the Autobot way of life. He’d take that step back, and he’d been glad the Senate had chosen to take the long route. The second phase was personalized because the Decepticons were _people_ , and the Autobots wanted them to be treated as such. Dangerous, often confused people, but people.

Jazz paused in the hallway, frowning into the living area as he thought of his former ward. Guest. Whatever the politically correct term for a semi-permanent live-in was these orns. Krok had been a low-ranked strategist during the war, a nobody officer, but that’s all Jazz had been up for dealing with at the time. He’d been stationed in the remnants of Tarn at the time, working on getting the city structure up and running. A high-ranking Decepticon officer would have been more of a hindrance than a help. Having a ward-partner with a strategist’s viewpoint had been useful without being threatening.

Krok hadn’t wanted to learn. He hadn’t wanted to change. He’d only agreed to the second phase because the stockades were so miserable. He’d bluntly told Jazz that. Of course, he’d also asked after his unit, so his attempt to seem tough and uncaring had been rather transparent from the first. Jazz had grinned and found out how his unit fared, and his ward had grudgingly thanked him for the updates. 

The stiff formality hadn’t bothered Jazz. He’d worked with Ultra Magnus, after all. If anyone could get the glowering to stop, it’d be the Autobot army’s unofficial morale officer. The mech’s sour glare had reminded him of Ironhide, in fact, especially after some ex-‘Con named Misfire had accidentally called Jazz’s console instead of Krok’s, and Krok nearly dove headfirst over the desk trying to shut the chatterbox up before the blathered monologue totally embarrassed him. Cue the irate flustered look badly covering an officer entirely too attached to his unit to hang up on one of _his_ mechs. 

_That_ had been what had changed Jazz’s mind about the second phase. Seeing Krok as a fellow Cybertronian and officer instead of a Decepticon had flipped a kind of switch in Jazz’s mind. 

After that, Krok never stood a chance. He just hadn’t known it. The attitude had only inspired cynical Jazz to try harder.

Krok had continued being sullen right up until Jazz had finally lit upon the key to getting the mech to open up. Turned out that the ex‘Con had a thing for sports. Once the connection had been made between cooperation with the Autobots and organized tournament teams, the light bulb had switched on. Turned out to be an industrial-strength spotlight, too, which had taken Jazz a bit aback. He’d found himself practically dragged in his ward’s wake as Krok had single-mindedly plowed through the second phase program requirements. 

Realistically, such results were probably outside the norm. That hadn’t made watching Krok puzzle out the Autobot way of life any less a basket of warm, fuzzy, sports paraphernalia for the Autobot Third-In-Command. Buckets of success. Buckets full of team organization and tagging along like some sort of giant metal soccer mom when Krok actually got clearance to start assembling an official league for Tarn. Jazz had learned more about mecha-soccer than he’d ever wanted to know. Then Krok force-fed him some more trivia, because living with Krok was like being immersed in enthusiasm for everything sports-related. 

He’d had the suspicion that the ex-‘Con had been trying to groom him to play a position, near the end. There’s been a lot of, “So…the team still needs a couple of defensive positions filled…” hedging going on. 

That’d been a good a sign as any that the transition from phase two to phase three had finished. Jazz had released him from the work program and gone back to Iacon on the same orn, which had initially sent the ex-‘Con into a panic. Well, right until Jazz handed over the apartment lease, third phase work permit, and his personal communications frequency. Then Krok had switched moods entirely.

Jazz had eyed the suddenly greedy gleam in the mech’s optics askance. “Uh. What?”

“You’re going back to Iacon, you say?” There had been stalking going on. Krok had been stalking the small Autobot. Jazz had recognized that look, because that look was the same one Krok had worn when they finally located a manufacturer who could turn out mecha-soccer balls and gear in bulk. 

Prime didn’t hire no fools. Jazz had zipped around behind the nearest piece of furniture. “Yeah, that’s the plan.”

“Uh-huh. That plan include seeing Prowl?” The furniture had seemed such a flimsy barrier.

Jazz had considered throwing the comm. frequency of an ex-‘Con named Fulcrum in the opposite direction while he made a break for it. The technician had graduated from the second phase weeks earlier and asked that Jazz pass his contact information along when Krok followed suit. Getting back in contact with one of his old unit might have possibly distracted the Autobot’s now-ex-ward long enough for him to flee to safety, but Jazz had warily stood his ground. Harmless question? Maybe, unless Krok had harbored some weird grudge against Prowl. “Yeah?”

The greedy, near-gleeful gleam had only intensified, and Jazz ruefully decided later that he should have run for it. Krok had made him promise to ask Prowl if he played mecha-soccer, and if he did, would he consider starting a league in Iacon? Please?

Once a strategist, always a strategist. Krok liked the violence of the game, but his goal was to play against another tactical mind. 

Jazz had laughed himself silly and dutifully asked. He’d sent Krok an image capture of Prowl’s baffled face and an audio file of his own vocalizer wheezing with laughter. Jazz hadn’t been so amused by his fellow officer’s discomfiture since Prowl asked how he could purchase cheeseburgers for all the felines on Earth’s Internet in order to clear websites overrun by their demands. Prowl had glowered at the laughter and said he’d consider it. Krok kept sending demands for a mecha-soccer league, although they were carefully phrased as reminders. Jazz kept passing them along, if only to see Prowl look increasingly hunted by the harbinger of organized Cybertronian sports. 

Krok seriously loved his mecha-soccer. Eventually, he was going to find out that Optimus Prime liked basketball, and then Cybertron was doomed. Regularly scheduled doom, broadcast planetwide and cheered from the sidelines by a mixed audience of ex-‘Cons and Autobots.

Seemed like a good way to be doomed, honestly. Jazz could already feel Prowl resigning himself to his fate as team coach.

Anyway, after releasing Krok into the third phase, Jazz had been far more enthusiastic about the second phase program. It wasn’t quick, sure, but the war hadn’t started overnight, either. It made sense that it’d take a long time to cool down. Since he was back in Iacon pulling file-pusher duty while Prowl took a turn restructuring a city this time, he’d applied to the stockade looking for another ward. He’d been confident he could work his magic on a second Decepticon before he rotated out of Iacon again.

That confidence came crashing down when Red Alert matched him with Soundwave. 

Soundwave remained one of the few high-ranking officers who’d survived to surrender after that last battle. Starscream and Shockwave had gone done in separate messy kills earlier on, leaving the Cassette deck the highest ranking officer on the field. Instead of continuing the fight, he’d knelt beside Megatron’s offline remains. He’d chosen surrender over retreating and abandoning the wounded, disabled, and captured. He wouldn’t have gotten far, not with how few Decepticons had been in any condition to fight or flee at that point, but he’d sacrificed his pride to save their lives. 

The Autobots standing by to pursue wouldn’t have bothered taking prisoners. The Wreckers never did. He’d held responsibility to the surviving Decepticons over his own personal convictions, which had kept utter defeat from descending into wholesale slaughter. Some of the Decepticons had fought to the very end, and that…hadn’t been a good way to finish. It’d come down to aggravated execution for many of the diehard fanatics. 

Soundwave had provided a way out for the soldiers, leading by example so the majority of the Decepticons could dutifully follow -- and live. With Optimus Prime’s gun against his throat cabling and Bluestreak grimly taking aim at the back of his helm, Soundwave had agreed to unconditional surrender. 

It’d saved the Decepticons, but it’d put them in the stockades. Nobody was risking war again. It’d almost sentenced the stoic officer to death, as well.

But death, as Ratchet stridently insisted out at every given opportunity (and some he took without permission), only circled around to more death. Since Ratchet had the backing of the medical community on Cybertron, the Senate had to at least listen to him. With the Prime throwing in his support as well, Soundwave’s sentence had been commuted from execution to imprisonment. He’d been pardoned of his specific crimes and slapped in the stockades with the rest of the Decepticons. 

Fine. As far as Jazz had been concerned, the Cassette deck could rot there. Just because Soundwave hadn’t fought to the bitter end didn’t make him any less the loyalist, hacker, and cold-sparked killer Jazz had faced across enemy lines the whole hateful war. The Autobot Third had helped set up the cell the Communications officer had been isolated in, actually. Red Alert had done the security system around it, but Jazz had tested the thing in a week-long attempt to contact the main groups of Decepticons, tap into a communication network of any kind, or escape. It’d been an intensely solitary and uncomfortable week, as he’d requested to be treated as Soundwave would be. 

At the close of the week, Jazz had walked out of the cell grimly satisfied with the life Soundwave was entering. It’d seemed like justice. Blaster had taken the mech’s surviving Cassetticons to rehabilitate. The telepathy mods were as permanently locked-down as Ratchet could make them without removing the fragger’s head. That left Soundwave with a small room with all the comforts of a prison cell, and the non-company of a rotation of guards instructed not to speak with him more than strictly necessary.

He could stay in the stockades forever by his lonesome, in Jazz’s opinion. 

Yeah, apparently not. The tough part of pushing equality was when someone who didn’t deserve it took advantage of the system. The first phase of the work program had been judged secure enough that even Soundwave had been pushed into it. Jazz hadn’t thought much about it beyond satisfaction that the former ‘Con officer had been one of the few never let out of the actual chain portion of the ‘chain gang’ concept. 

Unfortunately, cooperation with the first phase automatically allowed the prisoners to apply to the second phase. Soundwave had indicated that he was willing to participate, and his adherence to the first phase’s restrictions meant that he technically had the right to progress through the system. After all, freedom was the right of all sentient beings, although even Optimus Prime had sighed as he’d said it in this case. The right to earn that freedom _again_ was only fair, as it was being granted to every other Decepticon in the stockades.

Jazz had been one of the few Autobots who could have taken the Decepticon Communications officer on at full power. Bound by an inhibitor ring, anybody could handle the mech physically, now. It was the matter of controlling the fragger’s devious, underhanded manipulation that led to Red Alert seizing Jazz’s ward application as a sign from Primus. He’d handed over the Autobot Third’s new ward assignment with a helpless look of sympathy.

Now Jazz spent his orns debugging every blasted assignment Soundwave turned in, and he was tired of it. He’d tried. He really had. He’d resolved to treat Soundwave like a new mech, but the past kept getting thrown in his face. 

“This isn’t working out,” he said softly, walking out into the living area to flop onto the couch. He knew some mechs avoided the Earth innovation, but he personally enjoyed the giant squishy pieces of furniture. There was something wonderfully self-indulgent about sinking into what he sat on. Couches were impossible to climb out of quickly. He liked the reminder that he didn’t have to be ready to repel attacks at every moment of every orn anymore. And right now, he felt the need to sit, loose-limbed and exhausted, on something soft. At least the couch had some _give_ to it.

Unlike the mech over in the other office. Cooperation, Sunstreaker’s shiny aft! Every blasted second phase program requirement had been violated once, and exactly once. Never enough that Jazz could slap official reprimands on his file without looking like an overreacting paranoid rustbucket, of course. The violations tested the program cautiously but methodically, and Jazz was ready to be done with it. The testing for weak points never stopped. Soundwave was about as cooperative as Jazz’s original prediction had laid out. 

The proud former Third-in-Command of the Decepticons expected -- what? What was the purpose of the repetitive sabotage? Was it an attempt to create a scandal? Did he expect his Autobot guardian to snap? That seemed unrealistic. There was no way Jazz would lose his temper over this, but neither would he allow this mech loose into the third phase. Jazz was more keeper than partner this time around.

Soundwave wasn’t learning how to enter Autobot society. He was actively trying to destroy the peace, but never blatantly. It was subtle code changes, slips of communication, that couldn’t quite be pointed at as an act of war. Jazz had called him out on the undermining and rebellion before, but the subterfuge had only gone deeper as a result. It was getting progressively more difficult to catch the glitch’s clever work.

The Autobot threw an arm over his visor and cycled his vents slowly. The sound of his fans was starting to reflect the strain. On their own, tracking the intentional errors and additions weren’t too much stress. Adding the individual near-incidents up orn by orn, however, and his systems weren’t thanking him for it.

Soundwave was a communication specialist. He didn’t have to be out in the living area to hear what Jazz had decided.

He reached for patience and only found a bitter sort of weariness left at the bottom of the barrel. “It’s just not, y’know. I gave you an ultimatum: cut the slag out of your code work, or I’d punt you back to phase one. You said you didn’t wanna be put back in manual labor. Guess you didn’t mean it.” Soundwave lie? No, surely not! Perish the thought. “So, hey. Guess what? Looks like you’ll be back on construction duty by tomorrow.” Black-and-white armor ruffled up, flexing open like Jazz could release the exasperation out from under his plating that way. “I’ll file the violations tonight and send them in.” He laughed thickly. It was a heavy sound containing no amusement. “List might take a while to clear, considering how long it is by now. Hope you liked your cell, ‘cause you’re going right back to it.” 

Metal scraped, one room over. Light footsteps crossed the apartment floor, but Jazz didn’t move his arm. One thing the first phase had taught the Decepticons was the stupidity of fighting. Spark-cinches from the debilitation rings couldn’t be fought. It’d been a long time since the beginning of phase one, and any Decepticon with a recent physical incident report on his record wasn’t allowed to begin phase two until Red Alert deemed the threat subdued. Soundwave’s record was completely clear of incidents since he’d gone through a test of the rings around his spark chamber. Whatever he did now, Jazz was fairly confident it wasn’t going to be physical violence. 

Indeed, the Cassette deck stopped behind one of the chairs pulled up near the couch. “Outcome undesirable.”

That, Jazz did respond to. He pulled his arm off his visor and gave his ward a cross look for the flat statement. He’d been far more tolerant than he probably should have been, but not anymore. “Yeah, you said that last time. Yippee, you can repeat yourself. I ain’t seeing you back that statement up, Sounders, and that’s the part I’m calling scrapyard on. You didn’t comply -- you don’t stay out. I made that clear enough last time we had this talk.” 

The nickname got no reaction whatsoever. Soundwave did rest one hand on the back of the chair and turn his head to look out the windows taking up the exterior wall of their shared home. “Stockade is uncomfortable. Manual labor is beneath skillset. Return to phase one, undesired setback in progress.” 

There wasn’t much natural light from Cybertron’s perpetual night sky, but it was more than the Decepticons in the stockades got. None of the cells had windows, and all the artificial lights were the optic-searing blue-white that made shadows difficult to find. That didn’t seem like a big issue. Offices and businesses often kept their interior rooms shielded, right? Prisoners didn’t get to go outside on breaks, however, or choose where to spend their off-shift time. 

Jazz had deliberately rented this apartment for the windows. He’d seen the landlord’s advertisement and signed the lease after one viewing. The large windows showed the vast starry sky above and multicolored neon flashes from advertisement billboards down below. Streaks of light crossed the open sky as flyers and skimmers flitted to and fro. There was a steady flash of headlights from the overpass to one side and the street on ground level. 

Krok had tried not to show it, but he’d had an aversion to enclosed rooms. Soundwave managed to hide it better, but the big blue mech tended to spend as much time working in the living area as he did in his office. It was why Jazz hadn’t confronted him in that office. Windowless rooms now felt like prison cells to the Decepticons in general, and invading private spaces like a jailer didn’t foster the sort of relationship with the ex-‘Cons that…probably didn’t have a chance at happening, here, but the ward-guardian relationship had trained Jazz out of war-oriented behaviorisms as much as it’d changed Krok’s Decepticon nature. Trying to make this awkward fostering phase _work_ was ingrained in the Autobot Third.

Failure rubbed him raw. It was probably why he’d put off reporting Soundwave for so long. He didn’t like to admit he wasn’t up to a task.

He sat up slowly but bent to put his elbows on his knees as he did. “It was up to you. I did my half of the deal. You’re the one who decided to screw up your chance. I tried to meet you halfway.” His fingers tapped together until he curled one hand away and left the other hand upraised as if searching. “You didn’t try to meet me at all.”

“Return to stockade unwanted,” Soundwave said again. He looked out the window, but Jazz could have sworn the expressionless mech was watching him out of the corner of his visor. “Compliance could be secured by alternative means.”

That sounded like something a sleezy contact would have said to Jazz while he was uncover obtaining information for the Autobots. That sort of phrasing heralded a deal sufficiently skuzzy to avoid with extreme prejudice. Jazz scowled. He didn’t know what Soundwave was trying to pull, but he wasn’t going to yank back. Amateurs didn’t survive to become the Head of Autobot Special Operations.

“Frag if I’m going to fall for your double-talk,” he barked, smooth voice unusually harsh. “This ain’t a bargain, and I’m not gonna play this game with you.” The wall console pinged, and he struggled out of the cushy couch still scowling. “You made your choice, and now you gotta take the fall for making the wrong call. This isn’t about what **I** want. I did my part, and now it’s about your failure in life choices.” He levered himself upright despite the embrace of soft cushions. “Congrats. You fragged up. Time to own up to the responsibility for screwing yourself over.” 

The ex-‘Con seemed to stiffen, but that could have been Jazz’s imagination. “Bargain not offered.”

“Then what the slag’s your angle?” He huffed a breath out his vents and touched the wall console. “I can’t make you behave. Wouldn’t if I could. That’s not what I’m here for. I’m here to help you settle into a new life under your own power, not hold you at gunpoint. What, you really think the plan’s to hover over your shoulder forevermore to make you play nice with the other scraplets?” A request from the building’s front door opened on the screen, and Jazz selected it. “Hello?”

“Option of force: open,” was said quietly from behind him, and Jazz’s visor popped wide.

Before he could process all the connotations of that -- _what the frag_ had Soundwave just said?! -- a frowning face filled the wall console’s screen. “Hi. I’m here. Let me in.”

“Uh.” Two surprises in the space of a few seconds. Jazz’s head jerked back, and he eyed the screen guardedly. “Motormaster. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The Stunticon’s expression dropped from borderline irate to puzzled. That was an improvement over the beginning of the rehabilitation program’s first phase, when all Jazz had ever seen on his face was murderous rage. Optimus Prime could occasionally work miracles. “You didn’t get Prime’s message? I got his approval and everything.” His left optic ticked up in the lower corner, giving him a look of slight uncertainty. “I’m allowed visitations, now. I checked the program requirements before I even asked, and as long as he’s signed off on it, I can do stuff like this!”

This was heading rapidly toward defensiveness, which often slid directly into anger for many mechs. For Motormaster in particular, so Jazz raised a hand into sight of the video pick-up to placate him. “Hey, hey! Not doubting you! Just didn’t get a message. I’ll go look for it now while you head on up, yeah?” He selected the _’Unlock’_ option while speaking, and Motormaster seemed mollified. “See you in a few.”

The mech’s face twitched like he wanted to sneer but had fallen out of the habit. Miracles: Optimus could do them. “Whatever.” In the Motormaster lexicon, that likely counted as pleasant agreement. Jazz would have smiled at him if he hadn’t been hiding a towering black mood.

The screen went blank, and he concentrated on regulating his ventilation cycles for a moment. It used to take longer to frustrate him, but the part amplifying his temper was that this was completely unnecessary. The war was over. The stupid petty fights should have been, too. It was nothing to lose his temper over, especially not now, but…this? Again? _Really_ , Soundwave?

“So. About that message I never got.” The small black-and-white Autobot kept his voice light and didn’t bother turning his head. 

A tinny ping came from the direction of his office. The metallic sound repeated three more times. Four messages total had been blocked. 

When Jazz turned around, Soundwave had walked over to stand in front of the window. The boxy blue ex-‘Con stood there, looking out. The communication specialist had hacked the apartment’s comm-network. It wasn’t surprising, not with the Cassette deck’s overall poor behavior, but it was a rule violation, annoying, and just one more bolt in the crypt door. The smaller mech shut his mouth before an angry rebuke could escape. It wasn’t surprising, and it wasn’t worth fighting about. Not now. The time for calm talks and stern lectures was over. He’d escort Soundwave back to the stockade tonight.

Jazz was done with this lost cause.

He shook his head and headed back down the hall to his office, calling over his shoulder, “Let Motormaster in when he pings.” It’d take the Stunticon a few minutes to check in at the front desk and catch a lift up to their floor. 

In the meantime, Jazz checked his delayed messages. The first was from Motormaster himself, and it’d been addressed to Jazz and Soundwave’s joint apartment account. It had, civilly enough, asked for permission to visit Soundwave ‘to talk.’ From the tag attached the message, someone had already replied. It hadn’t been Jazz, of course, but the header said it was from him nevertheless. No wonder Motormaster had been confused by Jazz’s confusion.

The other three messages were from Optimus Prime to Jazz’s private account. Those were the ones that had the Autobot Third gritting his teeth. The first message was just Optimus checking to make sure it was alright that Motormaster visit. That was a more of a courtesy thing than an official notice, as he’d included an update of Motormaster’s status in the second phase so Jazz wouldn’t have to query Red Alert office for whether the Stunticon had permission for a visit. However, there was a reply tag on that one as well, indicating that Soundwave had helped himself to answering Jazz’s personal correspondence on top of hacking the account open. 

Great. He’d have to go through _all_ the histories on every single message to make sure nothing else had been tampered with, along with informing everyone of potential fall-out from having a communication specialist following up on their comm. frequencies. Jazz would have to change his personal frequency yet again, make sure the appropriate people knew how to contact him outside his official account, and set up all of his financial and personal accounts to link to it. It was a pain in the aft to do, no matter how much experience he had in doing it. It was still time-consuming details that now had to be taken care of.

It didn’t make _sense_. He read through Motormaster’s original message, trying to figure it out, but he just couldn’t see why Soundwave had intercepted it. There was no reason to hack Jazz’s account! The ex-‘Cons were allowed to talk. Call it a visitation privilege for good behavior, but the program regulations allowed for the Decepticons to move through their permitted sectors after reaching certain markers in phase two. As long as they checked with their guardian Autobots beforehand and cleared things, the formalities were pretty much a breeze to get through. Optimus’ second and third messages were a simple departure notice and request to confirm that Motormaster had arrived on schedule.

The black-and-white mech’s motor grumbled as he sent back a confirmation. Motormaster had arrived, alright. That was the ping from the door, in fact. It was everything else that was off the schedule and therefore irritating Jazz like crazy at the moment. He was normally a laid-back cat, but there was laid-back and then there was easy to take advantage of. He was pissed off at Soundwave continually mistaking his casual attitude for the latter.

The engine-grumbling kept up as he pushed back his chair and stood up to go greet his unexpected guest. Or rather, _Soundwave’s_ expected guest. Soundwave had forfeited any right to talk to another ex-‘Con at this point, but it wasn’t fair to throw Motormaster out just because Soundwave was a glitchhead. _Motormaster_ cooperated with the program, and like the Pit was Jazz going to be the one to deny him the rights he’d earned.

Optimus Prime had intentionally claimed the leader of the Stunticons when the second phase opened up, setting an example for the rest of the Autobots, and the two trucks were proof that the ward-guardian set-up _could_ work. Motormaster was stubborn and emotional, but he wasn’t stupid. Strangling the combiner links down to nothing with inhibitors had revealed the Stunticons as young, somewhat unstable, but not irredeemably insane. They’d first been thought to be beyond help, but not so. As long as the Stunticons were kept separate, their progress through the second phase was slow but steady. They backtracked when they got together, but not badly, and that was possibly a psychological reaction, like a ghost echo of a missing limb, except the missing piece was mental. The Menasor gestalt was as broken as the Autobots could make it.

Motormaster actually lagged behind the rest of his team quite a bit, but he had a lot of hatred to work through. The other Stunticons had been eager to abandon the combiner team if it’d meant escaping him, and he’d never quite gotten over resenting the Autobots for that. Despite that, he’d made a lot of progress. He was learning new skills quickly, but for every step forward he made, he took one step back. He was the only ex-‘Con who consistently, physically rebelled against the program requirements.

Jazz hadn’t been able to picture the angry young Decepticon as a secretary, but Motormaster had gotten drafted into the position with the dumbfounded look of a mech totally blindsided by the job. He’d gone from manual labor to office work the orn Prime’s application passed, and there were still times he had the befuddled, glazed optics of a cyberpuppy suddenly assigned calculus homework. Surprisingly enough, he’d been managing the job fairly well. 

He’d been dutifully following the Autobot leader around as an intern since becoming Prime’s ward. Optimus was teaching the young ex-‘Con how to lead in situations outside of battle, and the Prime had been pleased with how quickly Motormaster seemed to grasp the concepts. Once the Stunticon had made the connection between peace-time victories being made through public speaking, diplomacy, preparation, and research -- well, he wasn’t very _good_ at most of the niceties, but he tried. He was prone to muttering angrily at his console screen while hunched over his desk typing out stilted, polite messages to people who claimed not to get his previous messages or to have never received items he’d gotten notices of receipt about, but Jazz mostly found that hilarious instead of threatening. 

Then he’d randomly haul off and try punching the Prime for no reason anybody else could figure out. That? Not so funny. 

He got mulish about answering direct questions about his assaults. He never went after anyone else; just Optimus Prime. Jazz’s personal theory was that Motormaster was still stuck on the idea of being the ‘King of the Road.’ He’d been created as Optimus Prime’s nemesis, the Decepticon semi truck whom Megatron had ordered to destroy the Autobot leader. That did things to a young mech’s head, Jazz was sure. Ratchet had searched for some kind of compulsion programmed into the Stunticon, something that made Motormaster obsessively try to defeat Prime, but nothing had been found. Motormaster just scowled and went back to work…until the next time he lashed out.

Optimus said the Stunticon almost seemed confused and resentful, after the fact. The fact being that Optimus immediately stopped the violence. He floored the younger mech using the debilitation ring, and that put a stop to anything before it did more than begin. Motormaster swung, but he’d yet to connect. Optimus put him down, every time.

Jazz really hoped he wouldn’t have to take that option this orn. He didn’t think he would because of Motormaster’s fixation on Prime, but he wasn’t putting anything past Soundwave’s ability to manipulate people. He had the Stunticon’s ring-key downloaded from the labor program database, but he didn’t want to use it. Seizures were no fun to watch, and Jazz didn’t enjoy inflicting them. Ratchet swore there was a brief flare of pain, a fraction of a second at the most, but the spark-clench seizures lasted much longer. The rings interrupted the spark’s integration, and that disrupted a mech’s body in a profoundly disturbing way.

Keeping that to the minimum was a good idea for the orn. He was already having a cruddy shift.

“Yo to the Motormaster!” he called down the hallway in as much warning as greeting. Soundwave glanced toward him and away. Warning received. “Just an F.Y.I., I gotta sit in on your pow-wow, here.”

The large ex-‘Con looked away from Soundwave to frown down at him. Sometimes Jazz was really conscious of how short his frame was compared to other mechs’. “What? Why? I’m not gonna restart the fragging war, so -- “

“It’s not you,” Jazz interrupted him. “Soundwave’s problem, not yours.”

The short explanation got a reluctant nod of acceptance. Motormaster shot Soundwave a curious look, but the ex-officer had turned to walk back toward the window, playing deaf to Jazz’s words. There was a strange sort of protocol between the ex-‘Cons these orns. Motormaster would drop the issue, because what a mech did inside the program requirements was apparently not to be talked about. If Jazz or Soundwave didn’t bring it up first, the topic was unofficially off-limits for another ex-‘Con to bring up. Jazz couldn’t quite tell if it was a formal kind of politeness, or just the ex-‘Cons mutually deciding not to kick each other when they were down in case the kicker went down next.

Motormaster obviously didn’t like the Autobot listening in, but he only made a disgruntled noise over it before letting it go. “…fine.” 

The Stunticon glanced around, giving the apartment’s living area a once-over, and purple optics lit up when they spotted the couch. An aggressively inquiring look was directed Jazz’s way -- not quite a demand, not quite a question -- before Motormaster headed over to flop down onto it. Jazz couldn’t help but grin a little. Soundwave avoided the thing like a rust infection, but Motormaster had no such problem, obviously. The cushions were pushed about as the semi truck dug his back and shoulders into the couch and rootled about a bit to get cozy. The black-and-white Autobot sauntered after the larger mech to perch comfortably on the arm of the couch. He was small enough that it made a decently comfortable seat, and it was out of direct optic-view between the two ex-‘Cons. Just because he had to be here to supervise didn’t mean he had to make himself blatant. He snagged a gamepad out from underneath the corner of the couch and pointedly settled down to play. 

He could feel Motormaster turning to give him a wary look, but an Autobot’s presence wasn’t enough of a deterrent to prevent the Stunticon from speaking. “I need some advice.”

Jazz kept his visor locked on the gamepad, but he had to cover some surprise. Not that an ex-‘Con would turn to Soundwave for advice; Soundwave had been the faction’s Third-in-Command, after all. But _Motormaster_ asking for advice?

Optimus Prime was the miracle mech, no doubt about it.

The backlit, boxy shape at the top edge of Jazz’s visual range didn’t turn from the window. “Proceed.”

“I get it, okay? Prime defeated us. It’s -- I don’t like it, but it’s what it is.” One of Motormaster’s hands made an aimless gesture that threat assessment tracked and dismissed, and Jazz relaxed without ever giving a hint that he’d tensed up. “He took Lor -- uh, Megatron down in a fight, so I know he can put me down. He just **won’t**.” The Autobot twitched at the level of frustration suddenly welling up in that deep bass voice, but Motormaster was beyond caring how he reacted. The black-and-white mech slid casually off the couch arm to prop a hip against it like it was no big deal, but the Stunticon didn’t even look at him. The big semi truck leaned forward, elbows on his knees as he opened his hands toward Soundwave as if appealing for help. “They’ve got these toys in our sparks, and that’s all they’ll use! It’s like, hey, look,” his voice took on a biting edge of sarcasm, “we’ll smack you down, but we won’t take the final blow.”

Jazz had to bite his tongue to stay quiet. What?

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to **do** ,” Motormaster complained, losing the sarcastic Autobot impersonation and gaining a helpless frustration. “Prime won’t end this, and it looks really bad on my record that I keep trying to force his hand. I mean, what the frag is he playing at?! He’s got me at his mercy, but he won’t put me **down**!” The spread hands went up to press fingertips under Motormaster’s forehelm, massaging away a processor ache that’d evidently been building for years. “Frustrating as the Pit.”

There was a long pause. His optics were offline, which Jazz knew because the Autobot finally turned to stare at him. The blue visor flicked a glance at the window, but Soundwave still stared out over Iacon.

“I’m okay with the program,” Motormaster mumbled in the direction of the floor. “We lost. Not really something I can do anything about, and the my mechs are -- yeah. That. But I’m doing alright for myself. This’s what’s driving me up the wall, though. Half the time I feel like I know what’s going on because the blasted requirements say what’s next and all, but then he asks me what I wanna do, and he sounds so slagging soft. I’m taking a swing before I even know what I’m doing.”

“What, you **want** him to deactivate you?!” So much for staying out of this. Jazz hopped up and swiveled on the armrest, planting his feet beside the ex-‘Con. The mech’s thigh was almost as big as his entire lower body. He was kind of used to the size difference, however, so he just leaned in to peer at Motormaster’s face. “Is that why you keep punching Prime? No way.”

His interference got an annoyed look, but since Soundwave wasn’t saying anything, Motormaster just halfheartedly sneered at the meddling Autobot. “No! I get it, I said!” He shook his head as if exasperated with Jazz’s lack of understanding. “I can’t defeat him. I’m not **stupid**. Megatron could put me down, and Prime tore Megatron’s spark right out of his chest, so yeah, fine, I get it. Prime could run me off the road with six flat tires. But why won’t he finish what he started? Just…some closure. He keeps using this thing,” he thumped his chest to indicate the spark ring, “instead of beating me down and taking me so hard I scream. I **know** he’s not a push-over, but -- I mean -- “ His hands went palm up, and the Stunticon shrugged. “I can’t make it register.”

When Jazz didn’t do more than stare at him, Motormaster slumped back on the couch and heaved a vent of hot air. From anyone not scowling so darkly, it would have been a depressed sigh. Jazz frowned slightly, concerned in spite of his shock. Purple optics looked from the Autobot to Soundwave as if trying to decide which he was talking to, but the Stunticon eventually settled on staring at the floor. 

“Prime says if I throw another punch, he’s dropping me back to phase one,” he said in a low, resentful tone. There was fear in his voice as well, however, and Jazz’s frown deepened. “I don’t want to go back there. This job stuff -- government slag’s not what I want to do, but I’m doing okay with it. It’s interesting, at least. I thought that…I looked at the program requirements for the third phase, and I thought maybe I could start setting up a transport business. Merchandise and raw material transport between the cities if I could get my sector clearances passed.”

“Hold on, back this trailer up!” Doors hiked up and twitched as Jazz threw off his shock and got his jaw unlocked. What the frag was even being talked about, here? 

Wait, first things first: acknowledge Motormaster’s progress through praise and encouragement. “You got plans? Good. Starting a business is a good kind of ambition.” He forced a grin and thumped the Stunticon’s shoulder with a fist because he had the feeling the mech didn’t know what a high-five was. The mech knew his limits, and Jazz was genuinely impressed that he knew better than to try politics. Leading a business involving transportation, on the other hand, seemed entirely do-able. “Congrats on the plan.”

On to the real concern. “But what the cast-iron metal oven is this about Prime **beating you up** and **taking** you?!”

Motormaster looked blankly down at his shoulder, not quite understanding the gentle punch as encouragement. “What about it?”

What about it? _What about it?_

Soundwave intervened at last. Without turning from the window, he droned, “Autobots: have different perspective on victory. Victors are to be magnanimous in triumph through display of respect to the defeated.”

The Stunticon’s optics narrowed as he tried to parse that into something he could apply to his problem. Jazz’s visor followed suit, because what else had they expected from Autobots? The Decepticons had handled victory differently, but surely they knew about the difference? The Decepticons had studied the Autobots as intently as vice versa. They’d been enemies for millions of years; that kind of stuff got picked up on. The Decepticons beat the scrap out of their opponents, and the Autobots tried to show as much mercy as possible.

“So, what? Prime’s version of finishing the fight is to -- to help me with this stuff? I…what, really?” Motormaster turned back to Jazz for help this time, so baffled he seemed glad there was an Autobot on hand to ask. “Is that how Autobots handle infractions?”

The Autobot on hand to ask didn’t have a fragging clue what was being asked. Because it wasn’t exactly a secret that a mech hitting somebody weaker than him was kind of a big no-no outside of self-defense. Frag, a mech hitting somebody _stronger_ than him was a bad thing. It was called ‘fighting,’ and the Autobots tended to pass laws discouraging it.

That might actually be the problem, here. The Decepticons had sort of idly disapproved of fighting, unless it was stylish and/or entertaining. Then it’d been applauded. Same for gross bodily harm. And murder, really, unless a Decepticon had been stupid enough to get caught. 

He turned the question around to buy himself time to think this weirdness over. “How do, er, **did** the Decepticons handle it?”

The boxy mech at the window turned around to look at him. Motormaster shifted, face showing a mishmash of perplexed anger and outright confusion. The ex-officer cocked his head at the Stunticon like Soundwave was inviting him to speak first, but the big semi truck shook his head. This was up to Soundwave to explain, it seemed. 

“Autobot respect for defeated foes meant to build trust and relationship based on equality,” Soundwave said, the words emerging slow and somehow formative, as if by saying them aloud he was giving something nebulous a concrete shape. “Allows autonomy. Encourages losers to seek their own path. Actively nurtures sense of pride and accomplishment.” The red visor brightened slightly, the stoic mech’s equivalent of an inquiring head-tilt, and he waited for Jazz’s assessment of his definition of Autobot victory.

Jazz gave his definition due consideration. It was kind of a strange thing to think about that way, but it was nice all the same. It was nice that the Decepticons saw it as that, too. “I like that. Yeah. That’s about right.”

Whoa, hold the cargo-loader. That was one intensely baffled look Motormaster turned on him. 

“ **That’s** what you call a victory? That’s just **asking** for a rebellion!” Large hands sawed the air, trying to illustrate a point without punching a wall out of sheer frustration. “How am I supposed to know the fight’s over if you never give me an ending?!”

Bemused, Jazz refreshed his visor. Nope, he still saw one ex-‘Con having comprehension issues. “I’d have thought the stockades would’ve been a good clue.”

Exhaust stacks spat smoke, and Motormaster glared at the little Autobot. “Like that’s ever worked? That’s like putting Starscream in a brig cell. Yeah, sure, he cools down, but everybody knows the fight’s not over until there’s a wing through his cockpit and Megatron’s got him shrieking his name.” Wry humor twisted the corner of his mouth, because the present tense was habit even this much time hadn’t broken. “Or until he’s dead.” That was a definitive way to end a fight with Starscream, certainly.

The option the Autobots had chosen on the battlefield for the treacherous, dangerous Decepticon Air Commander, but finding out about this other option shook Jazz’s memories up. The beatings weren’t a surprise, but oh _wow_ did Starscream’s nonstop backstabbing suddenly take on a _whole_ new quirk. Prowl had spent half the war perplexed by how the Decepticon Second had continually pushed for seemingly no reason, but…

He didn’t want to know. He really didn’t. “Megatron ‘faced Starscream into submission?” Frag his impulsive vocalizer!

Both Decepticons gave him the same look a slow car in the fast lane got, but Motormaster was the one who scoffed, “What’s the point of ending a fight if the loser doesn’t **know** it’s over?”

“Different perspective,” Soundwave reminded the Stunticon. “Autobots: disdain violence as means to an end, or as the end itself.” The red visor swung over to look into blue. “Decepticon victory always given conclusive end through complete physical disablement and domination. Winner above loser. Dictates terms, destroys pride, controls and makes dependent.” There was a moment’s hesitation before the navy-blue ex-‘Con added, “Megatron: favored imparting sense of loyalty through application of forced pleasure. Losers enjoyed submission to winner. Twisted relationship between Starscream and Megatron extreme example. Method otherwise often effective.” 

Megatron had seriously interfaced Starscream to end their fights? That was way more information than any Autobot needed! It was either kinky as all slag and somewhat funny in retrospect, or the sickest thing Jazz had ever heard. 

The small mech’s mouth worked for a moment as he tried to figure out how -- or if he even wanted -- to ask if Starscream had kept trying to kill Megatron because the fragger raped him as a form of discipline, or because the flyer had liked getting his bolts loosened. Knowing the Air Commander’s convoluted mind, it was probably a complex weave of all that and more. Actually, considering what little Jazz already knew about the flyer’s interfacing preferences (that whole ‘know thy enemy’ thing sometimes meant learning things a mech would rather not), hate-sex had probably been right up Starscream’s alley.

Regardless, it sounded like Jazz needed to pass this information on. Red Alert was going to have to start making inquiries about which ex-‘Cons likely needed to attend therapy.

While the Autobot processed the connotations of Soundwave’s explanation, Motormaster squinted at the former officer as something caught the semi truck’s attention. “Didn’t know it wasn’t something faction-wide.”

The Cassette deck’s voice was impassive. “Stunticons: young. Experience outside of Elite is limited. Imitations of Megatron’s method varied in practice and success.”

“Oh.” 

The Stunticon leader seemed to think that over, but in the meantime, Jazz’s whirling mind reeled with mental images he really didn’t want. He almost cringed when Motormaster opened his mouth again because he feared further trauma. How much worse would Cybertron be right now if the Decepticon way of life had triumphed? 

“Prime doesn’t know, does he?” the Stunticon asked, speaking more to himself than either of the others.

Soundwave looked at Jazz. Jazz stared back. The red visor turned to Motormaster again. “Doubtful. Communication attempts?”

Motormaster scowled, but it was a thoughtful look. “I don’t know how…if he doesn’t **know** the fight’s not over, he’s just gonna keep using this thing in my chest instead of giving me a pounding. And I’ve **tried** to skip that part and just get him to frag me into the wall, but he doesn’t take a hint.”

“Pfft, hint? What’d you do, drop the soap in the washracks?” Jazz’s cortex had reached the point where there was a data-processing lag. It was a giddy, floaty feeling, and he laughed when the Stunticon’s optics flickered to the side, suddenly shifty. “You did? Aw, mech, how much Earth TV did you watch? That slag doesn’t work on mechs!”

“What the frag would you suggest!” Defensive and embarrassed, Motormaster pulled himself out of the squishy couch and took his flustered anger out in walking around the living area in long strides. “I’ve tried hitting him -- he uses the ring. I’ve tried hitting **on** him, but I don’t think he even noticed. Er, that might’ve been a faction thing.” He hesitated and looked split between ashamed and amused. Jazz couldn’t tell what the look he shot Soundwave was supposed to convey. “For the record, I think Autobots flirt differently that we do.”

Soundwave nodded gravely. Jazz resolved to grill Optimus for information about this later. The Prime could be oblivious occasionally, but he had to wonder what constituted Decepticon-style flirting. Giving hand grenades instead of Praxian crystals? Full body tackling in place of hand-in-hand strolls? 

“I tried arguing with him, but Prime’s unreal. **Nothing** gets him angry. He just talks at me until I give up. I tried -- alright, I tried dropping the soap. I tried to trip him with the soap, for frag’s sake! I’d pick a fight with somebody else, but I don’t **want** to fight anyone else. He’s the one who -- “ The Stunticon stopped dead, words trailing off in an incoherent mutter. 

He’d been created as Prime’s arch-nemesis. Some fixations were code-deep.

“Communication attempts?” Soundwave repeated.

Motormaster shrugged, turning his face away. “I haven’t said slag about it. Didn’t seem right. You get what I’m saying? It’s weird to have to…to provoke this.”

One side of Jazz’s visor abruptly narrowed. Yes, it was rather odd, wasn’t it? It made sense of Motormaster’s strange rages in the middle of good program progress, although the explanation still struck him as bizarre. As bizarre as Soundwave’s behavior, now wasn’t it?

Just how different was Decepticon-style flirting? Less an invitation than a provocation, perhaps?

Soundwave didn’t acknowledge the penetrating look Jazz turned on him. “Prime: values open communication. Advise a blunt request for hard interface. Possibility of further relationship?”

“Uh…” Motormaster rubbed top of his helm cowl, looking slightly cornered by the bland question of his intentions. “Not gonna turn down some regular fragging from him, gotta admit. He’s…he’s a good leader.” That was grudgingly admitted, more grudgingly than the admission about wanting some steady interfacing. “And he’s strong enough to pin me wherever and whenever it takes his fancy, which’s hot. He can ‘face my trailer into a flatbed anytime he wants.”

Jazz nearly choked on his own vocalizer and ended up coughing as he waved his hands for attention. “Hey! Hey, hold on! Both of you!” He glanced at Soundwave -- like _he_ was one to talk about open communication right now? -- before shaking off the issue to address Motormaster instead. “You’re his **ward**! He can’t ‘face you!”

Both Decepticons gave him that _‘What fraggotry is this?’_ look again. “Why not?”

Motormaster seemed taken aback when his puzzled question got a wide blue visor in return. “For one thing, you’re his responsibility, not his property. It’d be unethical to take advantage of you that way.” Right, that obviously went right over the Stunticon’s head. Jazz could almost see it fly into the ether. Consent? What was that? 

He hit reverse on his thoughts so fast it left mental skidmarks, and back he went to try and _explain_ this. It was important, and he was getting a terrible sinking feeling as he mulled over Soundwave’s words on Megatron’s version of internal discipline. If Motormaster was an example of what Megatron’s technique had spawned, then there were some Decepticons out there who needed to be talked to real bad. Real bad, because this kind of slag festered when not brought out in the open to be cleansed. 

“Take it from the, er, Autobot perspective,” he said, still thinking. “We want to build you up, not tear you down. We’ve got the upper hand, and we want to use it to help you up. You really think we’ve use it to pin you down after all the effort we’ve put into this?” More confused staring. Jazz blew air out his mouth and squinted one side of his visor. Right. Motormaster had apparently spent his time as Prime’s ward just waiting for things to go back to normal, not understanding that among Autobots, this _was_ normal. “You can’t stop us from doing what we want to you. What if you didn’t want to be fragged?”

That seemed clear enough to Jazz. Obviously not so to Motormaster. They were trying to explain two different viewpoints on reality to each other, and only Jazz could see glimpses of the other side. Motormaster was driving blind.

“But that’s kind of the point,” the semi truck said uneasily. “Prime taking me is, um. It’s.”

“A claim,” Soundwave provided when the Stunticon faltered. “Victor’s right.”

“Not an Autobot victor,” Jazz shot back. “And for another thing -- slag, what’re you going to do if he doesn’t **want** to ‘face you? That’s going to make things awkward as the Pit, and Optimus would have every reason to get you out of his place if he knew your lashing out is caused by this. Then where are you? You can’t get transferred to another Autobot with the kind of marks you’ve got on your record! Optimus has been a saint when it comes to putting up with you.”

There was some half-shamed shuffling, and Jazz was only somewhat surprised to see that it wasn’t only Motormaster’s feet moving. Yeah, Jazz had been tolerating more than his share of this slag from Soundwave. The Cassette deck had to understand at least some of this, but he’d still been playing his games on Jazz.

No wonder Jazz had been clueless on what was going on. He still wasn’t sure he got half of what was happening _right now_ , except for Motormaster wanting the Prime to…take him forcefully? Rape him? Beat him into submission, at the very least.

“I know,” the Stunticon said quietly. “Optimus isn’t like Megatron. He’s kinda -- well, soft. But it’s just a frag. What’s the big deal?”

Jazz stared at him. Sometimes it didn’t really matter that the Stunticons were young. They’d been brought online fully cogent and thrust into a war that had hardened already-forged soldiers into killers. Other times, however, it was terribly obvious that they hadn’t been around long enough to base their underlying ethical system on anything but Megatron’s warped values. Jazz could sit here all orn and explain things to this mech, but the only things that’d make a difference in the end were time and examples. Motormaster was going to have to grow up the time-honored way of aging naturally, and nobody could change that.

The Autobot’s mind chiseled at the problem, looking for a solution. Motormaster couldn’t see the bigger picture to understand why the Decepticon win-and-grab strategy didn’t work in a society based on mutual respect and cooperation. Adapting to that change in worldview was what the second phase was about, after all, and he wasn’t even to the midpoint of the program. He’d stalled out there because of his violent outbursts, but it seemed that there was a reason, however twisted, for those. The mech was hung-up, and frustrated about being hung-up, but still stuck. It was a really, really good sign that he wanted to get unstuck enough that he’d come seeking advice from someone he trusted to understand the Autobots better than he himself did.

Punishing the Stunticon for psychological damage would do nothing but worsen what Megatron had done. “If I arrange a fight between you and Optimus,” Jazz drew the words out thin air, manufacturing an answer out of determination to _help_ , “and he throws you around until Ratchet’s got to piece you back together. Will that stop you from assaulting him?” Because no way on Cybertron was Optimus Prime going to interface someone incapable of consent, either from inexperience or vulnerability.

Motormaster shifted, folding and unfolding his arms. “Maybe? It’d just be easier if he’d ‘face me -- “

“He’s not going to,” Jazz cut him off. He frowned, folding his own arms to stare the taller mech down. “A one-time fight, I think I can sell him. I’ll pull in some of the other Autobots as witnesses, and we’re going to lay down some solid ground rules about stopping when **you** want to. It’d gonna be clear that you’re the one in charge of who starts and stops the fight. But!” He held up a finger in emphasis. “This’s only going to happen if it puts a stop to your outbursts. So. Will it?”

The Stunticon looked down at his feet and scowled, but his optics held a conflicted look. “I think so. Would he -- can you get him to spar with me, afterward? It’d help.” The deep voice lowered. “I miss fighting.” The mech clearly didn’t like confessing any sort of weakness, but there was a peculiar sadness to the confession. 

Jazz grimaced. He could understand that, in a way. The Stunticons had done nothing but fight their entire lives. The Autobots had taken that away from them. The frenetic madness that’d come from the combiner bond had also been taken away, but the fighting was inbuilt in them. They weren’t all as hefty as Motormaster, but the whole gestalt was warbuilt to the core and reinforced with the components that made Menasor out of five separate mechs. While Jazz didn’t like the idea of allowing them to continue being violent, it would probably do them some good. It wasn’t like the warbuilt Autobots were all adjusting to the peace without some recreational sparring to take the edge off.

It’d do Optimus some good to let off some steam as well. Asking to spar was better than spoiling for a fight, in any case. The small Autobot nodded. “I’ll pitch the idea, but it’s up to him.”

The big semi truck dipped his chin in a nod, but he gave the Autobot a wistful look at the same time. “Are you sure about the fragging? It always looked so **hot** when Lor -- when Megatron had Starscream down, and I kinda want to try it just for fun...”

“Was it fun for your team?” Jazz asked coldly.

One of Motormaster’s optics went wider than the other. “What?”

“You beat the scrap out of your team when they jumped out of line. Was it fun when you raped them?” The other Stunticons had scraped up the courage to explicitly request separation from Motormaster once they were convinced the inhibitors on their combiner bond really worked. They were fine with each other, and the Autobots had given them limited interaction rights even in the stockade, but Motormaster terrified them all. Having seen the Stunticon lay into his own gestalt before, Jazz didn’t blame them. Especially if Motormaster had taken after his idolized leader’s preferred discipline method.

Soundwave made a discomfited electronic noise, and Motormaster worked his jaw back and forth as he turned Jazz’s words over in his head. “I…huh? You think I fragged my mechs?”

“Isn’t that what you just told me?” The Autobot cocked his helm. “Domination and forced pleasure is the Decepticon way, right?”

“Sure, but. Uh.” Motormaster blinked at him. “I guess the Aerialbots are different?”

Different than rape? Than beating each other up? He sure hoped so! “Huh?”

“When we hook up,” the Stunticon explained as if it were the most obvious thing in the galaxy, “all that happens is that Menasor takes over. We **can’t** frag each other. It’s always a combine.” He smirked, looking a bit mischievous. “The Constructicons told me that combining’s just a battlefield orgy, because all our hardware is doing is a group interface.”

There was a horrified pause. Horrified for Jazz, at least, although Soundwave was staring at Motormaster with an expression that was almost readable. The Autobot sort of hoped the boxy ex-‘Con was picturing the same things he was, because some mental scars needed to be shared.

“I didn’t need to think about Devastator that way,” Jazz said unsteadily. And he really didn’t want to think about the Aerialbots like that. Or, Primus forbid, the Protectobots.

 _Primus._ Enough with the bad mental images! Gah!

“No interfacing,” he laid down firmly. That was one line Optimus would never cross. “I don’t care how ‘hot’ you think it is. I’ll get your bolts busted, and that had better be enough!”

Motormaster deflated a little. “But I -- “

“You want to go back to the stockade?” It was a ruthless tactic, but reminding the mech of the first phase got a wince in response. “I thought you wanted to get through the second phase and start a business, Motormaster.”

“I do.” Subdued and sullen, the big Decepticon backed off the topic. He was bull-headed and persistent but, as he said, he wasn’t stupid. If this was the only way to head off the violent impulse to rebel, then he’d take it. “Slagging…fine. When?”

Some of the tension drained from Jazz’s cables when the Stunticon accepted his solution. “Soon. I’ll talk to Optimus in the next few orns and get things going. You’re on your own explaining your end of things.” He’d do his best to lay things out for the other Autobots, but Optimus was going to have to talk to the mech on his own. Jazz could only hope Motormaster actually dropped the interfacing idea completely, or things would get awkward real fast.

Much the way things did as soon as Motormaster left.

Jazz stood at the door, hand still on the control that had closed it, and the apartment air was just full of awkward. Awkward everywhere. Soundwave was standing way over by the windows, but there were waves of uncomfortable unresolved issues emanating from him. It clouded the air and tried to strangle the words in Jazz’s throat.

The easy solution would be to ignore the problem and send Soundwave back to the stockade. That would be easy, and therefore Jazz didn’t do it.

“Communication attempts?” he mimicked, turning to put his back to the wall and lean against it. 

Soundwave turned to face him, moving with the ginger care of a bomb disposal mech opening up an unknown warhead. “Those who cannot do, advise.”

“Cute.” The mouth under the blue visor didn’t smile, however. Making jokes out of what he’d have to alert _everyone_ of was not a way to make him happy right now. “Megatron do the beat’n’face routine on you, too?” There’d been no evidence that Soundwave ever rebelled against Megatron, not like Starscream had. It didn’t make sense that Soundwave would want to be beaten down and violated into submission if it wasn’t something ingrained in him by repetition. But why else would he have been pushing Jazz like this? Why else would he indicate the option of _force_?

“Negative. Physical dominance long established.” The red visor dimmed but held his gaze. “Preferred method of control was extortion. Megatron: possessed sufficient blackmail material to force obedience if not willingly offered. Threat was not required, but still present.”

In other words, Soundwave had followed Megatron of his own initiative, but Megatron _could_ have forced compliance. Which made an eerie parallel for their situation right now, where Soundwave would not comply but indicated his willingness to be forced. 

“I’m not going to make you do anything,” Jazz said harshly, chopping his hand through the air like he could cut down the idea. “Anyway, what do you think bringing this up would matter? If it’s about waiting until I say, ‘Time to go to the stockade!’ -- hey, news flash. I’ve been saying your time’s been running out for a while now, and you haven’t changed slag all!” 

Soundwave hesitated oddly, as if choosing his words. “Threat of first phase present. Return to stockade undesired. Debilitation ring in place. Soundwave: can be pressured by Jazz to cooperate.” 

The monotone recited the facts, but it wavered in a miniscule treble the Special Ops mech picked up on and blinked at. Was that…fear? Excitement? _Arousal?_

That checked his immediate indignation down into mingled thoughtfulness and bewilderment. Yes, everything Soundwave had just said was true, but Jazz was _missing _something, he could feel it. Something that had Soundwave reacting. “What, so you want me to stand here and spell out what I’ll do if you don’t get with the program? I couldn’t do that. Second phase is about you taking responsibility for your own behavior, not me holding threats over your head.”__

__Soundwave took a small step forward, venturing into the open space between them. “Responsibility accepted.”_ _

__He’d have taken a step back if the wall weren’t there to stop him. Jazz frowned and folded his arms tightly, knowing his body language broadcasted defensiveness but not caring at the moment as the Decepticon took another cautious step. “Mech, you’ve been backing me into a corner on throwing your aft back into phase one since you moved in. You haven’t listened to a thing I’ve said, so why should I believe that you’ll change that now?”_ _

__Soundwave lingered by the couch, testing the boundaries as Jazz’s doors hiked into a warning fight-or-flight position. “Autobot ethical position known. Purpose of second phase known. Responsibility for changed behavior rests on voluntary, conscious choice to comply. Soundwave: will comply.”_ _

__This was so weird Jazz didn’t have the vocabulary to describe the weirdness. “So why haven’t you?! Nothing’s changed!” Nothing Soundwave had just said was new! Why was the fragger choosing to bring it up as if Jazz would suddenly start actively threatening him? He wouldn’t. There was no point to forcing a mech to change when the second phase was for Decepticons to learn how to change themselves. It was why Decepticons had to be willing to leave the first program phase. The Autobots were there for support and guidance, not threats!_ _

__A step was taken, but Soundwave retreated when the Autobot slid away along the wall. The boxy blue mech backed off. “Appearance of extortion normative. Concealed threat a stabilizing feature among unknowns.”_ _

__Being threatened was a comfort? Pull the other one, Soundwave, because Jazz wasn’t buying that. He’d heard that hidden undertone in the mech’s voice. “Uh-huh.”_ _

__The odd hesitation returned. Soundwave’s next words were chosen carefully. “Some measure of enjoyment taken from pretense of submission.”_ _

__Things clicked into place, and Jazz was never going to squeegee the mental images off his mind’s optics. “You get off on being told what to do and not having a choice but to obey.”_ _

__“…affirmative.”_ _

__Jazz stared for a long, long while. Soundwave couldn’t meet his visor this time. They stayed that way, Autobot against the wall and Decepticon standing aimlessly in the middle of the room, and it was horribly awkward. Awkward piled on top of awkward and oozed off the sides of the stack to spawn yet more awkward._ _

__After quite some time, the Autobot finally got his vocalizer to work again. “You’re…not just talking about me pressuring you into cooperating with the second phase, are you.” It wasn’t even a question. What had the Decepticons _done_ to each other? No, nevermind; Jazz knew too much about what backstabbing Pits the bases had been like. A lot of what Soundwave had been doing abruptly snapped into focus, however strange the lense Jazz had to peer through in order see it from the mech’s perspective. _ _

__As Motormaster had said, Decepticon and Autobot flirting? Totally different._ _

__“Soundwave: incapable of resistance if Jazz chooses to take advantage of power over him,” the ex-‘Con said, weirdly delicate._ _

__“You’re not young enough to not know what consent is,” the Autobot said after sputtering for a while. Also a _lot_ of thought, about duty and morals and pushing boundaries on both. This was venturing into territory he needed a moral compass to navigate. What were the ethical guidelines for this situation?! There had to be a way to compromise!_ _

__There…had to be._ _

__“Soundwave: consents,” the communication specialist said quickly, words just slightly rushed. “Probability of actual follow-through on threats approaches zero. Soundwave: aware that Jazz unlikely to follow through on threatened return to first phase due to possibility of exposure of inappropriate sexual relations. Threats will not change behavior due to ineffectiveness.” He hesitated again. “Appearance of unwilling participation desired.”_ _

__Jazz made a dismissive noise. “You’re in the wrong circumstances for any of that.” He pushed off the wall a bit and wandered in the vague direction of the couch. Soundwave’s head was turned aside, but the gleam of red from the corner of his visor watched the Autobot avidly. “Sure, I’m not about to act on a threat, but that doesn’t change the fact that I **could**. I could tell you to open up your Cassette deck and sit right here on the couch,” his hands closed on the back of the couch, and by now Soundwave had turned to look at him almost hungrily, “while I fondled your Cassette heads.” He smiled brightly, friendly as anything as he reached down and patted the couch seat. The blue ex-‘Con sat down so quickly onto the hated piece of furniture that he seemed to have magnetized to it. _ _

__A light, suggestive drag of Jazz’s hand across the back of Soundwave’s neck nailed the mech’s back struts into a straight line, and a pat on one shoulder as the Autobot walked around the couch to face him had the Cassette deck’s undivided attention. “I could order you to strip off the door entirely,” Jazz continued as if they were only talking about hypothetical situations, just a ‘what-if’ and nothing important. His knees bumped against Soundwave’s shins, their size difference never more noticeable, and Jazz’s smile didn’t falter as those long legs slowly parted. He just took that additional step forward and bent, hands clasped behind his back as he leaned just barely into Soundwave’s personal space. “You’d take it off if I told you to. We both know it. Just like we both know what’d happen if we got caught. ‘Inappropriate sexual relations,’ you said. You know exactly what kinda situation you’re putting me in. Here I am with a **fine** piece of aft in my apartment all ready and waiting to be told what to do, and you’re my ward. You’re an ex-‘Con, and I’m your guardian. You like that, hmmm? You like the idea of me losing control and just **taking** you.”_ _

__He kept their visors locked, but Soundwave’s optical sensors were scattered as the mech’s thoughts obviously veered off. Oh yes. Soundwave did like that. “Yet here you are, puttin’ me on the spot with how you’re making me the one responsible for you staying out of the stockades. Take you or else it’s on my wheels you fail the second phase, eh? You know you have to force me to play this game with you.”_ _

__His voice chilled to ice. “You don’t want to go back to the stockades, right? You’ve been angling to get me into your berth since probably before I even got back from Kaon. Wouldn’t put it past you, and you shouldn’t put revenge past me.” His smile turned less friendly. “You think I’m attracted to you? You look good, sure, but not good enough to cross that line. Nobody looks that good. Anybody who thinks rape is excusable because of looks is crazy. Ah!” One hand came from behind his back, interrupting the protest before it began. “Because it’s rape. You can’t consent. No matter what you say, you are incapable of consent. This thing here?” He waved his freed hand, straightening a little and breaking their locked gaze. “The legal relationship we have, and -- frag, what we were, Autobot and Decepticon. What I am, now. That’s always gonna make it ‘inappropriate sexual relations,’ and that’s because there’s always going to be that pressure put on you because of our positions.”_ _

__His smile darkened all the way, from friendly to sinister, and the red visor flicked to it. “I could make you pay for what you were, Sounders. I could take this slag out on you, and what could you do to stop me? See, the only way I’d take you was to punish you. It’d be about the power, not disguised by any words said about how you say you like it or me lusting after your aft. Nope, I’d lay you out on this couch,” Soundwave twitched like he wanted to lay down, “and make you scream my name until I feel like you’re sorry for pulling this scrap on me. I could take your Cassette door off, yeah, and maybe make you walk around the apartment like that. I could suck and lick those sensitive heads all I wanted, whenever I wanted, watch you bared by what I did to you -- and you couldn’t stop me. What would that be like, Sounders? Ever had your chest opened to someone all the time? I could push you down here, my mouth inside you, my tongue licking back and forth over the tip-nubs while you lay there with your hands hovering over the back of my helm because you **don’t dare stop me**.” _ _

__His voice stayed conversational even as he leaned forward again. He had to raise it slightly to be heard over the strained whine of Soundwave’s fans switching to full-power. “If you touched me, I’d activate the ring on your spark. You know it. I know it. And I could push you as much as I liked because we both know what I could do if you crossed me.” He smiled at the boxy blue mech, crooked and vile. Aside from the loud whirr of fans and an overbright visor, Soundwave looked unaffected by Jazz’s pointed speculation._ _

__“I could,” the Autobot concluded softly as he straightened back up, “but I won’t. And I never will, because where’s the line get drawn? I would never know when I pushed too far, and you might not think you can risk telling me to stop. You dig? I’m not ever gonna ‘face a mech who can’t withhold consent. Same as I’m not going to hold anything over your head to get you to work with me instead of against me. That’s why your stupid head-game’s failed you, Soundwave. You were trying to force **me** into interfacing, **and** into taking responsibility for your cooperation. That’s rusted out slag even Swindle wouldn’t buy.” _ _

__“I don’t play those games. Not for work, and definitely for pleasure. If you decide to screw with the rest of your code work, I’m going to bring you back to the stockade tonight. That’s not a threat; it’s a fact.” His visor looked into Soundwave’s overbright one, and the blue glow was dark with purpose. He stepped away, hands safely tucked behind his back. “If you comply, it’s going to be because you want to learn how to get along with the rest of the world. You’ve just wasted all your chances to do it before the final deadline. And mech? Little fact for your information: I ain’t ever gonna clang with you. Ever.”_ _

__Turning away from the couch, he strode toward the hall and offhandedly tossed over his shoulder, “But if you want to imagine me putting you deck-down on your desk while I frag you halfway to Kaon, well, I ain’t about to stop you from self-servicing. Everybody’s got the right to a little fantasy.”_ _

__Vents audibly click-clacked open/closed behind him, and there was a tiny, staticky noise of a vocalizer totally flubbing a command to initialize._ _

__And that was it. Over with. Finito. They never spoke of it again, Soundwave and Jazz, but the malicious code stopped. Jazz failed to be surprised._ _

__He also failed to stop talking aloud in his office, detailing the wicked things he could do to a certain Cassette deck if he weren’t an Autobot and respectful of the defeated Decepticon he shared an apartment with. He was only talking to the walls, after all. Just a bit of a compromise and some filthy scenarios he’d made up on the spot._ _

__If anyone overheard him, they muffled their fans enough that Jazz only sometimes knew they were hanging off his every word._ _

__

__**[* * * * *]** _ _


End file.
